


from pain, awakening

by Rethira



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 12:22:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rethira/pseuds/Rethira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You run away again. Always you run,” she murmurs.</p><p>Naesala smiles tightly. “You know me, Leanne. The eternal coward.”</p><p>(a story of forgiveness)</p>
            </blockquote>





	from pain, awakening

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queenlua](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenlua/gifts).



> for Lua, who has put up with me talking about this for months and months and months

The poachers are caught in Begnion, selling fine long white feathers as _quills_. Empress Sanaki turns them over to Tibarn, murmuring quiet platitudes. The men’s faces when they see Tibarn are a picture, as if the horror of their situation is only now dawning on them. There’s only a fragile peace, and the collected bird tribes are- well. Clamouring for blood as much as they’re able to, what with Leanne and Rafiel still-

They are not formally executed for their crimes. Tibarn is _honourable_ to the last, and he gives them weapons and he says, “Run,” and watches them flee with their figurative tails between their legs. He raises his arm a minute later, and there’s a rush of feathers – Tibarn’s the first to reach the sky, and he screams as only a hawk can. Below, Nailah howls in reply, and her howl says _vengeance_.

Naesala takes terrible, terrible pleasure in tearing the men apart. He thinks Tibarn does too, but Tibarn’s face has shuttered and gone dark in recent days, so perhaps that’s simply Naesala reading too much of himself in Tibarn. He hears muttering when he’s next in Begnion, of _barbarism_ and _torn apart like animals_ and he cannot hold his tongue, saying, “And the White Prince’s feathers were used as quills.”

That silences those who would speak against them, for the moment.

They do not mar the funeral at least – Leanne insists she wants their friends to come, all but demands the presence of every royal on the continent. She and Rafiel stand by their father – he had looked well in recent years, but now he’s turned ashen and frail again, and Naesala foolishly hopes that they won’t lose him too. Some of the women cry – not Sanaki, nor Micaiah. Sanaki’s face is a shuttered mask of stubbornness and pride, where Micaiah is almost serene in her sadness. It skates off of her, and it irritates Naesala so much he avoids her.

This eventually leads to him standing beside Pelleas, and watching him watch Micaiah watch Sothe. There’s an expression of deep longing on his face, and Naesala is momentarily grateful that, to his knowledge, he never stood around looking at Reyson like that.  
 _  
And now he’ll never get the chance either_.

Naesala flinches – he thinks he sees Tibarn’s wings spread across the room – and briefly looks away from Pelleas. Tibarn is looking at him, it turns out, his expression something quite fierce and undecipherable indeed. He looks like he might be going to make a scene, so Naesala quite pointedly looks away and strikes up conversation with Pelleas.

“I must say, I’m most terribly offended,” Naesala begins.

Pelleas blinks and turns wide eyes at him – he always looks positively _terrified_ to have Naesala talk to him, not that they converse particularly often. “I’m sorry?” he asks, tentatively, eyes flickering wildly. Like cornered prey – _like they did when Naesala caught up with them_ – and it sends a somewhat shivery little thrill through him. Naesala never claimed to be particularly _nice_.

“You haven’t looked away from her even _once_ ,” Naesala murmurs, leaning down – it’s just a shade too intimate, enough to make Pelleas flush even brighter and stumble slightly back.

“I-” Pelleas almost shouts, his voice loud enough to make some of the other mourners – although at this point in the proceedings Naesala would hardly call what they’re doing _mourning_ – glance at him askance. He has to visibly settle himself again, tugging his dark, formal robes closer. “If that’s all you have to say-”

“Oh now, don’t _run_ ,” Naesala interrupts. “I can assure you – you’re hardly _alone_ in watching someone you can’t have.” He smiles – perhaps a touch too grimly for his purposes – and says, “We’re really quite similar, you know.”

This time it’s Pelleas that flinches, murmuring, “I’m not- we’re not at all similar.”

“Ah, but we most definitely _are_ ,” Naesala replies. “We both suffered under a blood contract – although I had the great fortune _not_ to be the fool who signed it – and we both- shall I say ruled? We both bore the title of King.” He looks towards Micaiah. “And now this. Herons, hmm.”

Pelleas’ face is probably going to attract some unwanted attention – a quick glance reveals that Tibarn is _still_ watching Naesala, although his expression has softened somewhat. Minutely. Ulki’s beside him, and Naesala scowls to think that his conversation has been relayed, verbatim, to Tibarn. It’s not for his ears – indeed, perhaps it’s not for Pelleas’ either, but he’s here and vulnerable and desperately in _love_ -

“This is- this is something you should discuss with someone else,” Pelleas says, his voice slightly tinged with desperation. “Perhaps Lady Leanne-”

Naesala snorts and says, “Leanne knows. If you think any of us are anything less than painfully obvious to her and Rafiel, you simply haven’t been around enough herons.”

For a moment, Pelleas looks hunted again, and he says, “But if Prince Reyson _knew-_ ”

Naesala looks away and meets Tibarn’s eyes. “Reyson was hardly going to comfort my pining when he already had someone.” He senses more than sees Pelleas’ eyes dart towards Micaiah and Sothe. “You see. We’re very alike really.”

Pelleas sighs, some of the tension leaving him. “Yes,” he agrees.

Tibarn looks away.

 

If Naesala were more suicidal and desperate, he might have tried to bed Pelleas the very night of the funeral – or, worse, bed _Tibarn_ the night of the funeral. He has some meagre self-restraint – “A little self-respect,” Leanne murmurs, pressing her hand to where Naesala’s heart resolutely continues to beat, her face sad and her eyes hurting – so Naesala also doesn’t abandon his duties and disappear off to Daein as soon as the funeral is over.

He makes it clear to Tibarn that he _could_ leave, even that he _wants_ to. Tibarn remains inscrutable, and Naesala doesn’t need the herons’ heart-sight to see that Reyson’s- that Reyson being gone has left a raw wound on Tibarn’s heart that hasn’t yet scabbed over. Might never. Never heal, never _scar_. Maybe he’ll be left just as raw and aching and unfulfilled as Naesala is.

“Leave if you must,” he says, eventually, and that’s no answer at all.

So Naesala doesn’t leave – Leanne doesn’t laugh much these days, but some of the grief goes out of her when Naesala says, “Because it will irritate Tibarn more.” He doesn’t need heart-sight to see _her_ wounds either, but they agreed long ago not to speak of it.

She loves him like no-one else ever has, and Naesala is terrified of it. He’s told her more times than he can count he doesn’t deserve her love, but she just shakes her head and tells him, “One day Naesala will learn to forgive himself.”

But that was before.

He waits a month before leaving, making vague excuses about diplomatic envoys and such like. Tibarn looks distinctly unimpressed but lets him go – laguz kingdoms take far less effort to run than beorc ones, and Naesala-

Naesala holds a position at court, but he is neither well liked nor vital. He can, quite viably, leave whenever he feels like. As long as he informs Tibarn, but to this day Tibarn has never once demanded Naesala stay. He would say it’s to keep the ravens happy about their former king’s new circumstances, but Naesala’s never been one for fooling himself – the traitorous wretches _adore_ Tibarn as they have never adored him.

Seeing as Naesala isn’t actually visiting on any sort of diplomatic premise, he forgoes the traditional court welcome – as welcome as it would be. Anti-laguz sentiment has faded a little amongst certain sects of Daein, due in large part to Micaiah’s reforms, but it is hardly _gone_. Instead he perches on the balcony outside Pelleas’ chambers and waits until he hears movement; predictably, this is not until long after the sun has set, and there’s a bitter chill to the night air, even this early in the season. He raps with his beak on the glass – something clatters to the ground, and then a cautious Pelleas opens the door.

“Kin- Naesala?” he asks, with no little shock. “What-”

Naesala shifts back and pushes past him, muttering, “Well, let me in,” as he does so. He pauses to examine the room while Pelleas locks the door. Pelleas’ chambers are rather drab all told, inasmuch as they could be for one of his position. Muted, dark colours, no greens or whites at all.  
 _  
Perfect_.

Pelleas’ surprise goes up another notch when Naesala tugs him closer – his heart thuds unexpectedly loudly – and he says, “This is most improper, Ki- Naesala.”

“I’ve always liked improper,” Naesala replies, leaning just down to slant his mouth over Pelleas’. There’s a sharp gasp, and hands that had been resting limply on Naesala’s arm suddenly cling tight, fingers digging in. A noise escapes Pelleas – and perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea. Naesala all but recoils, knows his wings are flared and that he must look-

But Pelleas’ eyes are wild and shocked, his mouth slightly reddened and he’s obviously in no condition to comment on Naesala’s appearance.

“What?” he gasps. “I- what?”

Hard to believe _anyone_ thought this child came from Almedha and the Mad King. He’s too meek by far- although the way Naesala’s heard it, the real Prince Daein was just as bad for pining as his fake, so perhaps they weren’t so very different at all.

“I should hope you know a kiss when you receive one,” Naesala says, somewhat testily.

Pelleas turns, if anything, even pinker. He nods and asks, “But why?”

Naesala shrugs and crosses back over to the balcony. “I should go,” he says, and isn’t particularly surprised when Pelleas doesn’t stop him.  
 _  
The story of my life_ , Naesala muses. No-one ever stops him.

 

Tibarn frowns when Naesala returns, like perhaps he thought he wouldn’t. Leanne tells him something silly, about Tibarn assuming Naesala had no reason to stay anymore – he resists turning to her and holding her and saying that he would _always_ have a reason to stay – but Naesala’s not sure he believes her. Especially when, after the brief flicker of- something, Tibarn relegates Naesala to looking over the various land treaties they have with the bordering Begnion territories.

The poachers came from Tanas, because of course they did, and-

It is something that at least Oliver no longer rules there. A small mercy, but a mercy nonetheless. The new Duke Tanas is a cousin of some description, and only somewhat better predisposed towards laguz. He at least reported the sale of beautiful white feathers – Naesala suspects only after purchasing some himself, and well. Sanaki had the power to turn the poachers over to them, and had made a brief apology about her inability to reclaim all of the feathers. Some, they’d found. Some had even been returned, once their owners knew where they came from. But Reyson’s wings had been woefully short of feathers at his funeral anyway.

Naesala rather suspects that if any member of the laguz sees someone with a familiar long white quill, be they bird, beast or dragon, they would certainly try to tear the user limb from limb.  
 _  
He_ would at any rate and Tibarn-

Tibarn’s rage had been a thing to behold. Naesala has the scars from his own experience of Tibarn’s rage. Most are hidden under his clothes and plumage, but one just creeps out up his neck, white, where everyone can see it. There’s even a rather fetching set of talon marks, clawed down his thigh; he might mistake them for Skrimir’s claws, but for the fact that Tibarn told him they were his.

“The healer didn’t let them scar,” he’d said, in regards to the wounds Skrimir had inflicted – which of course implied that someone had made the healer _let_ Tibarn’s marks scar. Neither of them had needed to say it; Tibarn’s eyes still catch, occasionally, on the scar at Naesala’s throat.

But that day- normally, _normally_ Naesala didn’t appreciate torn apart carcasses. Didn’t appreciate _watching_ bodies being torn apart but-

That day, Naesala hadn’t cared about the blood on his feathers. Hadn’t cared when he’d been able to distinctly see _fingers_ in the leaf litter, nor when the blood had made the ground slick. Tibarn’s beak and talons had been covered in it, and his eyes had been fierce and furious and Naesala’s heart had thudded briefly in his chest – and then Tibarn had shifted back, and he’d looked no less proud and wild as he’d said, “Burn them.”

There’d been blood on his lips, and only the thought that that blood belonged to a man who had- who had-

And then Tibarn had wiped the blood away, his face creased with what could charitably be called _disgust_ and it had been all Naesala could do to not kiss him there and then.

And then they’d returned to Serenes, and cleaned the blood and ash from their feathers, and Reyson had still been _dead_ , wings still painfully bare and neck still-

He looked like he could almost be sleeping but for the pallor of his skin, and that was worse than anything else.

Naesala stares at the new land agreement, and realises that he’s smudged the ink. He pulls out a new sheet of parchment, and begins writing it up again. There’s a somewhat darker blot where he lingers, debating what to write when it comes to... encroachers. Most beorc who lived close to Serenes were careful; didn’t kill the animals, didn’t take the wood, but-  
 _  
Poachers will be killed on sight_ , Naesala writes; there will be an uproar over it, no doubt, when he delivers the agreement to Mainal. But Sanaki cares about the herons more than she shows, and with Reyson’s death still so terribly _fresh_ -

They’ll agree to it eventually.

Tibarn scowls when he sees what Naesala’s written, but he nods sharply, and Sanaki doesn’t object at all when she sees it.

The senate talks of barbarism again, but Sanaki silences them when she says, “Many of you here owe your positions to men who ordered the death of the previous Apostle _and_ the goddess’ most beloved herons. Do not speak of _barbarism_ so lightly.”

Naesala’s lips curl when she says it; but she’s made her stance on the herons clear. The fact that there exist only three true herons left is a thing that weighs on her heavily these days. More heavily than it does on the actual herons, although given their lifespans, it’s hardly unusual.

While he’s there, Naesala finds the blondest, prettiest beorc he can and presses terrible, sweet kisses to her too soft body. She’s obviously flattered, more than willing, a testament to what even a meagre few years can do to public sentiment, and Naesala has to flee before he does something he regrets.

He does not return to Serenes. He couldn’t look Tibarn in the eye.

 

Instead he goes to Daein, and perches on the high battlements, hidden amongst the shadows so that none of the guards get _too_ concerned. He waits until full dark before slipping down to Pelleas’ balcony, by which time it has begun to snow and he is distinctly more bedraggled than he might have hoped.

Pelleas frowns when he sees Naesala again, but lets him in, and doesn’t even seem perturbed when Naesala remains stubbornly bird shaped while he waits for his feathers to dry. He isn’t inclined to make conversation either, instead reading a book in what little light his lamp gives off. It’s a wonder he can even see at all in the gloom – a wonder until Naesala recalls what the mark on Pelleas’ brow is.

He shifts and asks, “Was it worth it?”

Pelleas twitches and glances over his shoulder at him. “Was what worth it?” he asks. Naesala steps over and carefully brushes Pelleas’ hair aside, revealing a mark reminiscent of those the dragons bore. He brushes his thumb over it, and Pelleas’ breath hitches. “Oh,” he says. He pauses for a long moment, then nods just slightly. “Yes.” His voice cracks just slightly as he says it, and he looks innocent and vulnerable and so _unlike_ Naesala he can’t-

Pelleas responds ridiculously eagerly to Naesala’s lips on his. His hands clutch at Naesala’s shoulders, and he twists to reach, until Naesala simply drags him upright and pushes him back against the desk. Pelleas makes a somewhat shocked, surprised noise; his eyes flicker open-closed, and the lamp wobbles behind him. He kisses back when Naesala leans in again, kisses like he’ll never get the chance again – for one brief, bitter moment, Naesala is _sure_ that Pelleas is imagining Micaiah here instead – and when Naesala stops, his eyes are wide and shocked.

“I don’t-” Pelleas starts – Naesala cuts him off with a bruising kiss. Pelleas flails, and shudders when Naesala presses closer, between his legs like- like an _animal_ , mindless and _wanting_ and-

“Tell me to stop,” Naesala growls. “Tell me to leave.” The words should be orders but- there’s _pleading_ in them, begging and Pelleas looks so innocent and- and _horrified_ that Naesala flinches back, ready to go back to Serenes because this boy, this _child_ he doesn’t _deserve_ Naesala’s attentions-

“I- don’t. Don’t stop,” Pelleas whispers, so quiet Naesala almost doesn’t hear it. “Please, I- no-one-”

It gives Naesala pause. _No-one_. And he wanted to destroy, to break, to _shatter_. He finds he can’t any longer, and even though Pelleas’ voice rises in plea behind him, Naesala leaves.

He spends the night perched in an old, blasted tree, wings hunched up around him, shivering in the cold and it’s no more than he deserves.

 

He’s too sick for the return flight to Serenes. Decades of life in Kilvas and Serenes have ruined him for Daein’s harsher weather. Pelleas must have had some realisation of that, because shortly after dawn a platoon of soldiers search the forest and don’t seem particularly surprised when Naesala wakes from his tree and caws irritably at them. He’s not yet running a fever – and it would be hard for beorc to even tell, given the changes between his forms – but he can feel it coming, so he allows himself to be escorted back to Nevassa.

The healers dismiss him with a sniff. He can’t decide whether it’s because he’s a laguz and they have no idea how to treat him, or if it’s because so many in Daein catch fevers when the weather turns cold that they simply no longer care. Either way, he’s abandoned outside the castle healers with nothing but a bottle of vile concoction, and he loathes the idea of asking for a sick-bed to rest in.

Given as he doesn’t know how to navigate to Pelleas’ chambers from the inside of the castle, Naesala has to fly up, and even that drains him terribly. To his eternal shame, he collapses on the balcony, and only the miracle of Pelleas actually being present prevents him from staying there.

The next few days are a distressing blur of darkness and Pelleas and suddenly concerned healers – and the Silver Haired Maiden herself saying, “He’s lost the will to fight.” Even through the delirium it makes him angry. Damn the herons and damn their heart-sight. He thinks she returns at some point; there’s a cool hand on his brow, and a murmur that he can’t quite make out, but it soothes him nonetheless.

Even when he wakes, briefly lucid, Naesala can feel the strength leeching from his limbs. Pelleas is present, and he hurries over when Naesala tries to sit up.

“You’re not well,” he says, pushing Naesala back down. “You must rest.”

He doesn’t have the strength to push Pelleas away, nor even the strength to speak above a whisper – he rasps, “Water,” and Pelleas lifts a cup to Naesala’s lips and lets him drink.  
 _  
Pathetic_ , Naesala thinks of himself, before he falls back into fever dreams.

 

They don’t tell him how long he was ill for. Long enough that they had to send word to Serenes, and long enough that the healers still regard him with worry, even though he’s up and about again. But no-one from Serenes has come to collect him; there’s a missive, not in Tibarn’s hand, that says they’ve received the news about Naesala’s illness, and that if any complications arise they should send word again, but nothing else.

Naesala pretends it doesn’t bother him. He avoids Micaiah and her erstwhile husband, and only the fact that Pelleas’ rooms are located next to Naesala’s keeps him from avoiding him as well. Pelleas often comes to Naesala’s rooms. He’s soft-spoken when they converse, but more often than not, Pelleas is content to simply sit at the thoughtfully provided desk and work, while Naesala rests. He’s sick of resting, even though he sees the worth in it.

Occasionally he’s taken by how similar the scene is to the night he arrived. It makes desire stir in him again, and only the vague notion of not giving Pelleas his illness keeps Naesala from acting on it. Pelleas makes no mention of what happened before – although Naesala catches him staring more than once, particularly when Naesala is sunning his wings on the balcony. Were he in Serenes, he would have removed his shirt, but Daein is too cold for that, and it would likely make him ill again.

He wants to return to the forest, but at the same time he does not.

A week after he’s first able to stand unaided, Naesala goes flying. His wings struggle only slightly, and that is more due to disuse than any wastage, although he wouldn’t be surprised if the Daein healers had had no idea how to correctly exercise his wings while he slept. He doesn’t know that he would have wanted them to. The idea of beorc hands on his wings-

Naesala shudders to think of it.  
 _  
It would have been one of the last things Reyson felt_.

When he returns to his chambers, Pelleas is already there, hovering by the window. He turns when Naesala enters, and says, “There you are!” He sounds so happy that for a brief moment Naesala is _furious_ , but he shoves it down and away. The need to do something, to _act_ , to not simply _rest_ comes hard on his anger’s heels, and he crosses the room in three long strides and presses Pelleas back against the glass. He dips his head and presses a kiss to Pelleas’ lips.

Pelleas makes a soft noise into the kiss, and eagerly kisses back, hands wrapping around Naesala’s neck. Naesala kisses harsher, harder than Pelleas deserves, but he makes no protest, only pressing closer until Naesala finally pulls away.

He says again, “Tell me to stop,” but Pelleas just shakes his head.

“You’re hurting,” he breathes, and it should be an accusation, it feels like it should be, but he says it as no more than a statement of truth, with no judgement in his voice and no derision either.

Naesala trembles – perhaps he’s not as well as he thought – and lets out a shaky breath, his wings slowly relaxing. He steps forward again, sliding back between Pelleas’ legs – Pelleas shudders – and slowly Pelleas’ hands settle on his shoulders. He even pulls Naesala closer, until they’re pressed chest to chest and Pelleas can wind his arms around Naesala. He tucks his head against Naesala’s throat – _against Tibarn’s scar_ – and just-

Stays there.

His fingers rest just at the base of Naesala’s wings, pressing a little insistently at the join, where a little of Naesala’s skin is bared through his clothes – Pelleas can’t know how intimate a touch it is, Naesala tells himself, even as his wings flare and curve around him. He shakes – and it takes Naesala a touch too long for him to realise that he’s _sobbing_ \- no wonder Pelleas’ hands are rubbing, no wonder Pelleas is clutching him closer-

“You must think I’m pathetic,” Naesala hisses.

Pelleas’ hands pause and then he sits back. “No more than I am,” he says, and he looks so _lost_ that Naesala has to lean in and kiss him again- lips and hands and _skin_ , Naesala is _comfortable_ with that, not with _this_ -

There isn’t exactly much talking after that; Pelleas is not so eager to shed his clothes as he was to kiss, and whimpers softly when Naesala kneels between his legs. They’ve moved to the bed by this point, and Naesala thinks he would feel bad about this, except for Pelleas’ hands clutching at his shoulders, at his hips, at his wings.

His inexperience is obvious and _sweet_. It makes something tight unfurl just slightly in his chest – and what Leanne will think about that he doesn’t care to know – and when Pelleas is shaking in the aftermath, face turned into Naesala’s chest and heart still racing, Naesala finds it shockingly easy to wrap his arms around Pelleas until he falls asleep.

He leaves before Pelleas wakes, a half-scribbled note left on his desk – Naesala’s halfway back to Serenes before he realises he wrote it in the Ancient Tongue. But then, Pelleas is a mage; he’d be a useless one indeed if he couldn’t read the old language.

 

Leanne smiles a soft, sad smile when Naesala returns. She holds his hand for a while, makes sure he’s well, then leaves with a murmur of, “To visit someone very old and very lonely.”

Lehran makes one of his rare appearances a few days later, distant as ever. Never quite trusted either; he pauses only to clasp Naesala’s shoulder and say, “I’m sorry.”

Leanne isn’t at court for nearly a month, although Rafiel assures them she’s well. He also smiles sadly, and Nailah’s arm – when she is with him of course – tends to tighten around his waist, as though she wishes to fight the entire world to keep him safe. When Leanne does return, she goes to Tibarn first – Naesala is hardly surprised. All the herons turn to Tibarn first. There’s a tense set to Tibarn’s wings after, and he has an extra glare set aside for Naesala, which is of course when the letter arrives from Daein.

From Pelleas.

There’s an ugly set to Tibarn’s face when he sees Naesala and the letter, and it gets even _uglier_ when he sees the seal on it. As if he could have any objections to Naesala taking up with Pelleas.

Apparently he does; he expresses them in a typically boorish manner, by pinning Naesala to his bedroom doors and snarling, “She _loves_ you,” brokenly in his ear. “Ashera knows _why_ ,” he grinds out.

“Did you honestly think I don’t already _know_ that?” Naesala replies, tearing himself out of Tibarn’s grasp.

That seems to give him some pause at least; Tibarn looks at a loss. “Then why-”

“It’s none of your concern,” Naesala snaps. “Leanne and I have an _agreement_. Neither of us have- well, there aren’t precisely rules, Tibarn, not that I would expect your loutish head to understand that.” He pauses, and steps pointedly away from Tibarn, towards one of the windows. “I am not a fool, Tibarn. Leanne has made her choices, and I do not begrudge her them – as she does not begrudge me mine.”

“You’re telling me not to interfere then,” Tibarn growls. “Even though she’s preg-”

Naesala makes a noise somewhere between a caw and a snarl, his wings flaring. “There’s no need to- I’m _aware_.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Tibarn says. “She hasn’t told you.”

Naesala shoots him a withering look and says, “She didn’t need to.”

“I see,” Tibarn says, even though it’s obvious he doesn’t.

“If that was all,” Naesala says, acidly.

Tibarn nods and waves him off – he looks perturbed but that is, at the very least, better than the expression he was wearing earlier.

The letter says, after a fashion, _come back soon_. He leaves it where Tibarn will doubtlessly find it and read it, and doesn’t _quite_ hope that that will be an end to it.

Leanne has notifications sent out, announcements for a royal child soon to be born. They carefully don’t mention the name of the father, don’t mention the father in anyway, and Naesala feels sick when people look at him like they _know_.

A tiny orange bird makes a brief appearance in Serenes. It perches carefully on Leanne’s shoulder and stays with her for a week. Naesala sees it flying out to Lehran’s later, where he imagines it stays for much longer.

Not many children can claim to be blessed by a goddess.

It’s that thought that eventually sends him flying to Daein. He neglects to ask Tibarn’s permission this time, but he’s not blind, and it’s rather hard to miss the large green hawk trailing effortlessly behind him. He makes absolutely no comment when he hears Tibarn land on Pelleas’ balcony some ten minutes after Pelleas has let Naesala in.

“Di- did you hear something?” Pelleas groans, trying to peer past the bed curtains – he can’t see Tibarn from where he is, but Naesala can, and he catches Tibarn’s eyes when he moves his mouth down over Pelleas. Pelleas makes a choked noise, and his hands dig into the coverlet, and Naesala smiles around him.

Pelleas whimpers and throws one hand over his face – he’s been red since Naesala knelt in front of him – just as Tibarn shifts. His hand stops above the door handle, and Naesala can _see_ the conflict in his face, especially when Pelleas’ hips twitch and he makes a soft, shattered noise in his throat, just hissing out, “Na-Naesala-”

He shakes all over, Naesala only sitting up when he stops. Pelleas’ eyes are shut, even with the arm over his face, and his chest is heaving. Naesala glances over to where Tibarn is still staring in through the balcony doors, before carefully sliding his hands along Pelleas’ sides. Pelleas gasps softly and blinks at him – Naesala tugs slightly at Pelleas’ nightshirt and smiles, slowly. Pelleas nods jerkily, sitting up to wriggle out of it, and then wrapping his arms around his chest in what must be a sudden burst of self-consciousness.

“It’s a bit late for that, hm?” Naesala asks, leaning forwards to press a soft kiss to his lips. Pelleas shakes under his touch, and Naesala feels he should be distressed about that but he isn’t.

Because Pelleas is scared and alone and stronger than they think, like _Reyson_ was. _Was_.

The thought makes Naesala’s heart stutter and then he’s kissing Pelleas _hard_ , drinking down Pelleas’ halfway-alarmed noises, so distracted and tense and- and _angry_ that he almost doesn’t hear the door opening and then there’s a large hand on his shoulder and an irritatingly familiar voice saying, “Naesala, stop.”

Pelleas scrambles backwards on the bed, blushing even harder than he was before and babbling nonsense while desperately trying to cover himself. Naesala sighs and shrugs Tibarn’s hand off his shoulder.

“That was rude,” he comments. “I think I should kick you out.”

“You can’t do _that_ ,” Pelleas says, his voice tilting dangerously close to panic. He’s clawed the coverlet up and over himself, wrapped it around his shoulders and he looks- there’s really no other word for it. He looks _adorable_ , Naesala thinks, a grimace on his face.

“Naesala-” Tibarn starts again, sounding actually _angry_. Naesala stands and shoves Tibarn back, pausing only to draw the bed curtains around Pelleas to give him some _semblance_ of privacy.

“You may have your problems with _me_ , Tibarn, but I must draw the line at _this_ ,” he hisses, gesturing at the room.

“Leanne-” Tibarn begins, stubbornly and Naesala just snaps.

“Is neither my wife nor keeper. _She_ can remember that – why can’t _you_?”

Tibarn steps forward again, threateningly, and of course that’s when Pelleas opens the bed curtains and pokes his head out. Tibarn pauses and Naesala sighs and sits back down, his wing curving slightly around Pelleas’ shoulders. The fight drains out of Tibarn, and with a huff he turns back to the balcony and leaps off it.

“Well,” Pelleas says.

Naesala snorts.

 

Leanne’s radiant with pregnancy; it makes everyone in Serenes smile to see her. She presses Naesala’s hand over her stomach the first time, whispers, “They’ll love you,” with a certainty that makes Naesala shake. She lets Tibarn see once, and Naesala _relishes_ his frown even more than he does the tautness of Leanne’s stomach.

She never asks he stay though – encourages the opposite in fact, and Naesala finds that he’s soon a frequent visitor to the high walls of Nevassa’s castle.

His relationship with Pelleas is no secret amongst certain circles at least; when he does attend Nevassa for official, diplomatic reasons, Pelleas’ cheeks turn high colour whenever Naesala so much as _looks_ at him, and Micaiah makes a somewhat pointed comment regarding not hurting him. _More_ , she does not say, but then her eyes say it for her.

He takes Pelleas to bed, and touches him as gently as he knows how.

Tibarn catches him as he’s returning once, and he snaps, angrily, “Have you replaced him so easily?”

Naesala laughs mirthlessly, and replies, “I could never replace him as easily as he replaced me.”

To his credit, Tibarn doesn’t hit Naesala for that. He grabs his arm hard enough to bruise, drags him close – and if he thinks Naesala misses the way Tibarn pauses, his eyes flicking between Naesala’s eyes and mouth he’s sorely mistaken – and then shoves him away in disgust. Naesala hits the wall jarringly, and Tibarn storms off, the line of his shoulders tense and his wings half spread in anger.

Naesala returns to his rooms and undresses lackadaisically, giving his newly forming bruises only cursory glances before he collapses into bed. He dreams of Reyson and of Tibarn, and he dreams of sweet, soft Pelleas, who he is ruining so. When morning comes, his bruises have bloomed purple on his skin. Where a scar crosses one, it stands out starkly white, and he traces it with his fingers. Pelleas has not asked about the scars, and Naesala doubts he will tell.

They’re not for other people.

Some hours later, Leanne comes in – she does not knock – and she frowns delicately at the bruises marring Naesala’s skin.

“You’ve upset him,” she says, softly, turning his arm in her hands. “As you will upset Pelleas if you see him looking like this.”

Naesala cups her face and says, “I upset everyone in the end, my dear.”

Her frown deepens, just slightly, and she says, “I would have you even now, Naesala. It is you who drive me away.”

“I know,” he replies. “I drive everyone away.”

 

There’s a series of diplomatic talks being held in Mainal – for the most part, the attendees aren’t royalty, but these days Sanaki takes an ever increased interest in even the most minor of affairs, so she sits in on them. Naesala’s spent far too long dealing with politics to enjoy it, and he’s _hardly_ diplomatic in the slightest, but Tibarn likes to show a united front to the other nations, so Naesala is sent in preference of anyone better suited to it. At least, that’s why Tibarn _says_ he’s sending Naesala.

The bruise on Naesala’s arm hasn’t faded yet.

The talks are nothing particularly interesting or important; minor diplomats all of them, and no-one Naesala knows. Rumour has it that Crimea is preparing for a wedding, which at least explains Lord Bastian’s absence. The dragon is young, at least in Goldoan terms, and obviously has little experience with beorc. He makes comments the beorc – particularly those from Daein and Begnion – take with ill grace, and Naesala thinks that perhaps he should take him aside and try to help him.

But Naesala keeps quiet. He’s not fool enough to draw attention to himself, even amongst these circles. Tibarn might say he’s presenting a united front, but everyone else reads it clear as day; he doesn’t know what to do with Naesala. Neither does anyone else. What do you do with royalty when it’s no longer royal? It’s so much easier with the herons. Leanne is still Princess, as Rafiel is still Prince, but everyone knows they will not rule in fact.

But Naesala is nothing. The strongest of his kind and for what?

Tibarn could rend him limb from limb if he so wanted.

He touches the scar on his neck, just briefly, but Sanaki sees it. Her eyes flash dangerously, and she calls a recess for today. Naesala has said hardly anything, and heard even less. He does not care in the slightest.

“Naesala,” Sanaki says. “I will speak with you.”

He smirks at her and bows facetiously. “As you wish.”

She scowls – she wears it better than she used to, now she’s grown and no longer a child. She looks every bit the Empress she is, and she sweeps towards a private meeting room. Naesala follows her, and delights when she sends her guards away. By evening, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was all around the castle; the Empress and the old King Kilvas, meeting privately, with not even a chaperone to keep an eye on them.

She seats herself in a high backed chair, and narrows her eyes at him until he sits as well. “I shall cut to the matter at hand,” she says. “You are not wed to Princess Leanne.”

Naesala is slightly surprised, but he agrees. “And I am not the father of her child.” He smiles, perhaps a touch cruelly. “Would you like to guess who is?”

Her face is carefully blank. Such solemnity in one so young. “You have no plans to wed either, do you?”

“No-”

“I thought as much.” Here she pauses, a thoughtful look on her face. “You know that I would wed you of course.”

“As Leanne would.”

Sanaki does not cry any longer. She does not hold his hand or tell him the things that Leanne would. But she nods curtly and she says, “If you wish to go on to Daein, I will not stop you.”

He rises from his seat, and goes to the door. “For what it’s worth, your highness, if I had to marry a beorc, it would be you for preference.”

She turns away, her hands folded neatly in her lap. “And you would be my first choice for husband, but I have long since accepted that we do not always get the things we want.”

He laughs mirthlessly, thinking of white feathers and long, golden hair, before opening the door.

“Naesala,” she says. He glances back, but she’s still turned away. “I am... sorry, about the White Prince.”

A silence stretches between them for a time, before Naesala says, “Aren’t we all?”

 

He wears his bruises proudly when he undresses, and Pelleas doesn’t ask – instead he presses a soft kiss to the damaged skin. He accepts Naesala with all the sweetness and care of a dear lover; Naesala can easily imagine words of love falling from Pelleas’ lips. He views the pale canvas of Pelleas’ skin and he sucks and bites bruises on to it, marking it as his and ruined with the same motion – his hands are not gentle when he wraps them around Pelleas’ wrists or hips, and the bruises he leaves are just as tender to the touch as the ones Tibarn left him.

Pelleas’ voice is a broken song of gasps and moans, almost painful to listen to.

He gasps, “Naesala,” as a platitude, a plea for solace – Naesala’s heart stutters in his chest and he kisses the bruises marring Pelleas’ skin.

“Are you feeling better?” Pelleas asks when they’re finished. He’s curled under his blankets, and he looks thoroughly debauched – Naesala looks away from him and begins to dress.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to,” Naesala replies. They fall silent. He can feel Pelleas’ eyes on his back. He wonders what the scars there look like; he’s never cared to ask anyone to tell him. His wings tense and fold rigidly against his back. He holds his shirt loosely and wonders if it would be so very bad to simply stay.

“Naesala,” Pelleas says. Naesala turns and looks over his shoulder. Pelleas has pushed back the covers. He pats the bed invitingly. “Come to bed.”

He undresses again, almost numbly, and slides in next to Pelleas. Pelleas smiles, and lies down next to him – it barely takes any time at all for his breathing to even out into sleep. One of Naesala’s wings tentatively stretches out to cover Pelleas.  
 _  
I must be sleep-addled_ , he thinks to himself.

He doesn’t fall asleep easily. He watches Pelleas in the darkness – a moonbeam lights the room enough for him to see. His mind lingers on the differences; Pelleas is dark where Reyson would have been light. No wings stretch from his back, no delicate white feathers for Naesala to touch. He’s marked by life as Reyson never was. The charm on his brow is the most obvious, but his fingers are callused and there are scars here and there; evidence that Pelleas has not always been the intellectual, the advisor, safe and happy and secure in this castle.

The only scars Reyson ever bore were the ones on his heart.

Naesala shifts and folds his wing back. Pelleas turns in his sleep, mumbling.

“I would ruin you, little one,” Naesala murmurs. It’s too dark for him to leave, to make the flight back to Serenes safely.

He does it anyway.

The sun is rising by the time he gets back; the only people awake are the few guards, and they have little comment for Naesala’s arrival. He flies directly to his room and falls thankfully into bed, exhausted. He doesn’t even bother to undress.

Around midday, after a restless sleep, there’s a sharp knock at the door to his chambers and Tibarn storms in. He pauses only briefly when he sets eyes on Naesala; there’s a determined look on his face.

“Sanaki sent word you were in Daein,” he says.

“I was,” Naesala replies, tartly. “But now I’m not. Did you want something?”

Tibarn scowls. “I can’t let you keep doing this, Naesala.”

Naesala quirks and eyebrow and sits up, stretching his wings. “What? Exhaust myself like this? Or do you have objections to whom it is I’m-”

“Tch, you know that’s not what I’m talking about Naesala. I’m talking about your dereliction of your duties,” Tibarn snaps.

“ _What_ duties?” Naesala laughs. “Don’t pretend here, Tibarn, you know as well as I – I’m nothing anymore. A show of unity, perhaps, a façade.”

Tibarn lashes out, grabbing Naesala and dragging him upright. “You’re _necessary_ ,” he bites out, like it hurts him to admit it. “Reyson wouldn’t like-”

Naesala shoves him back. “There are lots of thinks Reyson wouldn’t like. Being dead strikes me as the thing he would dislike the most, but perhaps I’m wrong there. After all, I was never as close to him as you were.”

The noise that escapes Tibarn isn’t beorc; Naesala moves before he’s even aware of it, shifting and flying away. Tibarn shifts behind him, a wordless cry of rage morphing into a hawk’s scream of anger. Naesala doesn’t dare look back. His wings burn as it is, the muscles screaming from a long night of flying already. But he can _feel_ the anger in Tibarn, feel the rage, and he could never beat Tibarn in a straight fight. His only hope is to get away, and even that is no sure thing.

Anger makes Tibarn faster, and he’s freshly rested in any case.

Tibarn stoops on him, talons outstretched. They dig into his back and his wing and Naesala falls, almost dragging Tibarn with him. But Tibarn’s talons come loose before they hit the trees, and Naesala’s wings refuse to work so he hits them hard.

There’s a _snap_ and sudden, terrible agony.

He’s unconscious before he hits the ground.

 

“... move..... him.”

“...... I can’t..... have you done.....”

“...his wing-”

“Get out.”

“Leanne-”

“ _Get out_.”

 

“Easy now.”

Naesala groans and slowly opens his eyes. There’s a familiar wall to greet him, and his face is half mashed into the pillow. A cool hand touches his forehead. He wants to push it away and sit up, but all the strength is gone from his muscles. “What?” he croaks. The hand is removed and then reappears with a glass of water.

A voice says, “Drink this. Slowly.”

Naesala gulps it down, unmindful of the irritated noise he gets for it. The hand takes the glass away, and its owner finally reveals himself to be Lehran. It could have been worse, Naesala accepts.

“Well?” he asks, finally trying to sit up. Before he can get much further than getting his arms under himself, Lehran presses down on his shoulder.

“Don’t,” he says. “Your wing was broken.” The bottom falls out of Naesala’s stomach, but Lehran continues. “I’ve splinted it, and healed you to the best of my ability, but the bone must set.”

After a moment, Naesala rasps, “ _Where is he_?”

Lehran sighs. “Lady Leanne sent him away. She and her brother are... they are greatly displeased with him.”

“Hah.”

Lehran smiles grimly. “I believe Lady Nailah is under orders to let him nowhere near you.”

Naesala snorts and slowly lies back down. His good wing twitches against his back; the other is numb and stiff. “So,” he begins, “how long am I to be stuck here?”

Lehran shrugs. “I would prefer you not move for another few weeks. You won’t be flying for a long time, I’m afraid.”

“But I will fly,” Naesala states.

The look on Lehran’s face says it all.

They lapse into silence, and Naesala goes back to sleep.

 

_  
Dear Naesala,_

_I was going to start this by wishing you well, but news of your injury has reached Daein, so instead I will wish you a speedy recovery._

_..._

_I missed you. Or perhaps I miss you. I’m sorry that you felt you had to leave. I’m sorry that I tried to make you stay._

_..._

_I know that I can never replace what you lost, but I hope that I can be of some help._

_Know that I care for you, Naesala, and that I would have you safe._

_My deepest regards,_

_Pelleas_

 

Lehran makes liberal use of sleep staves. Naesala finds it preferable to being awake; Leanne sits beside his bed and tells him silly, pointless stories. Her stomach is just swelling with child. He wakes up once and sees Lehran touching her. His hand curves carefully over her stomach, proprietary.

“It will be fine,” Leanne says, warmly. She smiles at Lehran as she would a lover.

“I worry,” Lehran replies. He looks back to Naesala and Naesala feigns sleep. She’s not his and she never will be.

When she isn’t sitting with him, Lehran putters nearby. He’s not interested in conversation, so Naesala lets the silence hang between them, only talking when his wing hurts. On rare occasions, Rafiel will be there and he’ll sing galdr. Ones for healing, Lehran says, and his voice always goes sad and dark when he says it. His voice never rises in song. Naesala can only imagine how it must pain a heron to lose their voice.

He wakes once, in the middle of the night, and sees Nailah’s eye glinting in the moonlight – she’s looking past him and towards the window. There’s a shadow there. Too bulky to be a heron, too slight to be Tibarn. One of his aides then. Ulki or Janaff. Nailah bares her teeth and steps towards the window, scaring whoever it was away.

“I’d have thought guard dog was beneath you,” Naesala comments.

She looks at him and kneels beside his bed. “I treated Rafiel in Hatari. I brought him back from death, and I would follow him there if he left me. He is happier now than he was, but he will never be truly happy again, for he cannot fly, and there is no place a bird belongs better than the sky.

“What Tibarn has done to you is unforgiveable. It should have been better for him to kill you outright, yet he did not. Now, he offers apologies and pretty words. He begs for a forgiveness he does not deserve. I have seen the scars he left you, Raven King, and I know them for what they are. He marks you as his and he marks you forever. A punishment.” She subsides, though her face is just as fierce.

“I may yet fly again,” Naesala replies, “and I don’t see the scars as a punishment.”

“Then you are doubly a fool,” Nailah replies. “He has done this so everyone recalls your treachery. Perhaps he regrets it now, for I see his eyes on you far more than I should, but it is done and it cannot be reversed. We may yet hope that your wing recovers enough for you to fly, but you must accept that it may not.”

Naesala dips his head. She speaks sense, for all she is beast and not bird. “Tell Lehran I require paper,” he says.

 

_  
You may yet get your wish, little Empress._

 

Lehran lets him out of bed after a fortnight. His wing is still strapped up, and it aches almost constantly, but Naesala bears it. His other injuries have largely healed, although Lehran informs him that he’ll have more scars. The ones on his back pull just slightly, and Lehran is concerned about his muscle strength in any case, but Naesala gets up and he walks out of the room.

Leanne smiles brightly when she sees him, and she chatters away and says how happy she is that he’s up. She holds his hand while he walks around, and doesn’t flinch like the others do. None of them like to see an injured wing.

He’s surprised when his old subjects turn up. They ask after his health, but they avoid the obvious question. It’s more attention than Naesala’s had from his people in years.

He’s the first to admit that he’s bitter.

Leanne lets him go, and Naesala wanders deeper into the forest. Someone’s following him, but Naesala knows who it is. There’s only one person it would be.

“Come down, Tibarn,” Naesala calls. “Before you make a fool of yourself.”

There’s a rustle and then Tibarn lands in front of him. His wings flare out, but he seems self-conscious about it, tucking them back and folding them so they appear smaller than usual. He’s paler too, and he looks distinctly uncomfortable.

“Naesala,” he says. “I’m... glad.”

Naesala snorts. “Don’t celebrate yet. I haven’t healed completely.”

“But you will fly again,” Tibarn says.

“Perhaps,” Naesala concedes.

Tibarn freezes. Naesala walks away, and Tibarn doesn’t try to stop him.

Lehran makes Naesala rest again the next day, and helps to exercise his good wing. The muscles are stiff, as they were after his illness in Daein, but they relax easily enough. It’s dull sitting down and flapping his wing extremely slowly, but it’s better than nothing, and afterwards Lehran lets him leave again.

It becomes a habit; he goes for a walk during the day and exercises his good wing in the evening. Lehran doesn’t comment on the progress of his other wing. When Naesala asks, he frowns, although his frowns grow less severe the more time passes. He tentatively unstraps it one day, and helps Naesala to stretch it out.

It’s still painful and his wing shakes when fully extended, but the bone has healed straight.

“You must still give it time, but with some luck you will fly- but you’ll never be able to fly as you did before. And you still must not shift. You cannot risk it,” Lehran tells him, severe in this as he is in little else.

A laugh escapes Naesala. “I shall disappoint Sanaki again.”

Maybe it’s just his imagination, but Naesala thinks Lehran splints his wing a bit more tightly than is really necessary after that.

 

Spring is in full flourish by the time Lehran finally lets Naesala exercise both his wings. He’s still not allowed to fly, and his left is far stronger than his right, but he’s allowed to stretch them and flex them. His people talk around him with murmured, hopeful whispers. Leanne touches his wing with careful fingers, helping him to preen it. It still aches occasionally, and Lehran says there may yet be some swelling, so she’s as gentle as she can be.

Many of his feathers are damaged in any case, so they have to grow back too. He’s impatient and irritable. Too long trapped on the ground – Rafiel avoids him, and Naesala knows why. The hawks have offered to take him flying many, many times. But Naesala can think of nothing worse. How could anyone fly without their own wings to carry them?

He sees Tibarn on occasion – there’s relief on Tibarn’s face, but he still seems paler than usual, and there are dark circles under his eyes. He doesn’t approach, and Naesala....

Naesala’s wing trembles when fully extended. It hurts when he does it, but he grits his teeth through the pain.

He doesn’t know if he’ll forgive Tibarn yet.

It’s not like he’d deserve it. He never forgave Naesala for betraying them, despite the blood pact. He never forgave Naesala for giving up Reyson, although Naesala can hardly be hard on him about it. He never forgave himself for what he did to Reyson.

Beautiful, pure, kind Reyson.

He always stood between them. A balancing force – one that kept them from harming each other too badly, or he had. And now he’s a weapon, a way to hurt them, and _oh_ , how Naesala wants to _hurt_ Tibarn.

His mind flickers to Pelleas.

Fragile, naïve, sweet Pelleas.

Naesala folds his wings and turns away from the sun and from Tibarn’s piercing gaze. He walks where once he flew – where others still fly. Some of them drop to their feet when they see his approach, but most do not. The sight of flight squeezes his heart.

He heads to his chambers, and he writes a letter.

Lehran calls him a fool and an idiot and says that he should be sensible and remain here for his convalescence. That no healer could match what Lehran has done, and that certainly no healer in _Daein_ could hope to know what to do with his wings.

“You may have healed me this time,” Naesala says, “but it was you who left me Tibarn’s scars, was it not?”

Lehran stills and falls silent. He takes a breath and then he says, “I shall send a letter with you. You shall give it to the Queen and to no-one else.”

He tells Leanne as soon as Pelleas’ reply arrives. Leanne’s smile fades when he tells her, but, he assures her, it is better this way.

“Better for whom, Naesala? You run away again. Always you run,” she murmurs.

Naesala smiles tightly. “You know me, Leanne. The eternal coward.”

She kisses him, and it’s delightful and bitter and she’s more precious than he deserves. “You must tell Tibarn,” she orders. “He worries.”

He doesn’t want to. He leaves it to the last minute – goes to Tibarn’s chambers the night before, when most people are asleep and knocks sharply on the door.

“ _What_?” Tibarn grumbles, opening the door. He stills when he sees Naesala, and then says, “Naesala.”

“Tibarn. Well? Are you going to let me in, or shall we talk out here in the corridor?” Naesala asks.

Tibarn moves jerkily out of the way and allows Naesala to enter. His room is perfectly typical of a hawk – except for a dresser near the corner. A pearl-backed hairbrush sits there, along with other delicate trinkets. Naesala tears his eyes from it and stalks nearer to the window.

“I’m leaving,” he announces.

The door clicks shut behind Tibarn. “You can’t. Your wing isn’t healed yet.”

Naesala favours him with a withering glare. “Yes, and that would be why I am journeying with a caravan. Lehran has given me leave to go, and I am expected.” He pauses. “I do not know if I shall return.”

The silence in the room is heavy. Tibarn swallows, his eyes flicking between Naesala’s face and his wings. He looks _afraid_. He comes closer, and his hand reaches out – Naesala struggles not to flinch.

“Nothing I can say will ever fix what I have done,” Tibarn says. “I will not ask for your forgiveness, Naesala; I do not deserve it. We have both treated each other badly, but I fear I treat you far worse than is your due.”

Naesala snorts. He tries not to move his wing. Tibarn’s fingers are gentle, careful where they touch, but it is difficult to _trust_.

“Don’t interrupt,” Tibarn chides. “Reyson thought there was something good in you, but I never listened to him. I still don’t see whatever it was he saw, but he _forgave_ you, and that’s something I never did.” His hand drops from Naesala’s wing. “And look where that’s brought us.”

Naesala takes a step back and snaps, “Stop hiding behind Reyson. He’s _dead_.”

Tibarn _flinches_. “I _know_ ,” he says, his voice raw, “I know.”

“Well,” Naesala begins, folding his arms and ruffling his wings. “I’ve told you now.” He walks past Tibarn, intending to leave, but Tibarn catches his arm.

“Don’t go.”

Naesala rounds on him. “Why? What _possible_ reason could I have to _stay_?”

For a moment, Tibarn looks lost. But then he says, “Leanne.”

“Hah! Leanne is letting me go,” Naesala replies. “She’s not like _you_.”

He meets Naesala’s eyes and repeats, “Just- don’t go. _Please_ , Naesala.”

“Or _what_? You’ll break my legs too?”

Tibarn’s hand squeezes, just slightly and for barely a moment. He drops Naesala’s arm as soon as he realises what he’s doing, and he looks so _horrified_ with himself. “I would _never-_ ”

And Naesala _wants_. He wants to hurt Tibarn, he wants him to feel like Naesala does, broken and exhausted and _angry_ , so he reaches out and he grabs Tibarn’s hair and pulls him sharply down into a kiss. Tibarn makes a shocked, ragged noise and his hands flail for a moment before settling tentatively on Naesala’s hips.

He breaks the kiss. “So make me _want_ to stay,” he snarls.

Tibarn nods, eyes wild, and Naesala hooks his legs around Tibarn’s waist. Tibarn carries him to the bed – pauses a moment before sitting on it and letting Naesala kneel over his legs. His hands are exceedingly careful where they touch him, and he peels Naesala’s clothes off gently.

Naesala doesn’t raise an objection – he bites Tibarn’s throat and licks the bruises, scratches down Tibarn’s arms and tells him, “ _More_ ,” when Tibarn’s fingers brush over Naesala’s scars. He stands only long enough to undress and undo Tibarn’s pants before kneeling back over him. Tibarn groans and kisses Naesala, wings curving around them.

“Oil,” Tibarn murmurs when he pulls away. “We need oil.”

Naesala shudders at that, and gets up to rummage through Tibarn’s drawers. There’s a rustle of clothing behind him, and the bed creaks a little – Naesala glances back to find Tibarn staring at him. He goes back to searching, and finally comes back triumphant with a carefully corked bottle. He strides back over and seats himself over Tibarn again, pressing the bottle into his hand before leaning down to suck a bruise onto Tibarn’s collar.

Tibarn’s fingers are careful. Gentle. As if he’s with a breakable heron instead of Naesala. Naesala’s wing twinges as he thinks it, and he laughs to himself. Perhaps Tibarn has the right of it, and Naesala is more fragile than he thought.

He pushes Tibarn away when he thinks he’s ready, and then he lowers himself over Tibarn – it burns a little, but Naesala doesn’t care. Tibarn looks so _vulnerable_. His hands twist in the sheets when Naesala moves. They tear right through the sheets when Naesala kisses Tibarn, and then Tibarn’s hands come to press against the small of his back, clasp his hip. Tibarn moves in earnest then, as best he can, but his kisses remain sweet and gentle.

“ _Naesala_ ,” he groans, and Naesala shudders over him, biting his lip to keep from crying out.

He lets Tibarn clean them both up, even deigns to sleep beside him. Tibarn’s wing stretches out to cover him, and Tibarn’s hand clutches at Naesala’s.

When dawn comes, and Naesala wakes, he gets up and dresses. He pauses before leaving only to press a kiss to Tibarn’s forehead.

“You tried,” he murmurs.

 

The caravan leaves Naesala at the Daein border. He suspects they’re glad to see the back of him; he might have paid an exorbitant amount to travel with them, but he’s hardly grand company for beorc. They were never quite sure how to treat him, although one of the children had broken his leg once and had been happy to talk about the difficulties it had given him.

There’s a troop of guards to meet him. They’ve thoughtfully brought a carriage for Naesala to sit in, although they make comments about his obvious lack of horsemanship when they think he can’t hear them.

It’s only a short journey to Nevassa, comparatively. He’ll be glad to sleep on a proper bed again, instead of at an inn or in the carriage. Those inns in Begnion hadn’t been precisely _welcoming_ but neither had they turned him away. The first inn in Daein, the innkeeper refuses to even serve him, and Naesala is forced to spend the night in the carriage, despite the protestations of his guards.

Naesala doesn’t make a fuss about it. He stretches his wings on the carriage roof and ignores the stares. Only a few people look at him and move on. Micaiah is changing the people, but slowly. Decades of hatred for the laguz cannot be wiped away so easily.

He wonders about Pelleas. In his letters, Pelleas had sounded eager to see him again, but Naesala cannot help but wonder how he will react when Naesala finally appears. After all, their last meeting ended so abruptly. Pelleas must have been hurt, at least at first.

But does anyone really expect any different of Naesala at this point?

He’s given his old room in Nevassa. Micaiah sends word that she’ll see him as soon as she can, but otherwise he’s left alone. He’s barely been in his room five minutes before there’s a knock at the door, and it doesn’t take a seer to know who it is.

Pelleas stands in the doorway, slightly flushed and his robes in disarray. He looks exquisite. Untouchable.

“You’re here,” he says. “Well of course you are, but-”

“Yes,” Naesala interrupts. “I came back.”

Pelleas smiles. “I’m glad.” He glances towards Naesala’s wing. “Are you- will you fly?”

“We’ll see.”

Pelleas face falls, just slightly, but he rallies admirably, and distracts Naesala until Micaiah makes her appearance. Naesala half expects Pelleas to jump to his feet and immediately focus on her, but he doesn’t even seem to realise she’s there until she laughs at one of his anecdotes.

He turns and stands, blushing as he murmurs, “I’m sorry, Micaiah. I didn’t see you.”

She shakes her head and pats his arm. The Brand on her hand stands out starkly against her skin, uncovered. It’s elegant, beautiful. Naesala’s skin crawls to be around her.

“It’s of no matter, Pelleas,” she says. “Now, Naesala. You seem better than I thought you would be.”

“Hn. I’m healing,” he replies. “Here, Lehran wanted me to give you this.” He offers the letter, and she accepts it and reads it quickly.

“He’s nothing if not thorough,” she says. “I daresay Pelleas will be willing to help you with some of the muscle strengthening.”

Pelleas starts but nods. “Anything I can do, I shall.”

“Excellent. I’ll have to ask you not to fly until we’re sure you can, of course, but I doubt you would in any case.” Micaiah smiles, and folds her hands. “I shall take my leave now.”

Naesala nods and shuts the door behind her. He doesn’t need to be a laguz to hear the hitch in Pelleas’ breath that betrays his excitement. Pelleas is all but vibrating with it – and it’s been a while. It’s been a while, and Pelleas is willing and eager and safe.

He’s as gentle as Tibarn was, in his own way. He touches at the base of Naesala’s wings and moans sweetly when Naesala shudders against him. He covers his face and bites his lips, and Naesala wants to keep him close and _his_ and owned.

Pelleas falls asleep with his fingers entangled in Naesala’s and this time, Naesala doesn’t leave.

 

Micaiah is a hard taskmaster. Harder than Lehran was; she holds his wing fully stretched out for longer than Lehran did, long after it’s started to ache from it. Where Lehran had looked pleased at such progress, Micaiah doesn’t.

“I believe you’ll fly again,” she says, after a week of such torment, “but I doubt you’ll ever be as free in the air as you were before. You must take it easy. No tricks, no shifting. And you’ll have to make your first flight close to the ground – I’ll have the dracoknights nearby to catch you if something goes wrong. I trust you have no objections?”

“Hmph. Well, I’d better not. It seems it’s all arranged. Am I to know _when_ I’ll be allowed to fly?” Naesala asks.

Micaiah closes her eyes for a moment, and says, “A fortnight. Perhaps a week, if your muscles are strong enough.”

“Hm.” He nods and goes to leave.

Micaiah stops him. “Naesala. I would rather not have to speak of this, but... I worry.”

“About what?”

“Of late, Pelleas speaks only of you. I daresay he thinks only of you as well. And I will _not_ have you use him and throw him aside. He deserves better from you,” she explains.

Naesala snorts. “If I might speak frankly, that’s a bit rich, coming from _you_.”

Micaiah frowns and shakes her head. “I knew the depth of his feelings for me, Naesala, and I chose not to bring attention to them. He is a dear friend to me, and he always shall be. I need your assurance that you will not hurt him worse than you already have.”

Naesala swallows, and he thinks of Reyson and of Pelleas. Perhaps Pelleas is the best of them all.

“I’ll try,” he allows, “but I can give you no further assurance than that.”

Micaiah doesn’t smile or seem relieved. “I expected as much,” she says, and leaves before Naesala can ask her what she meant.

 

_  
If all goes well I’ll be flying within a month. I’ll see you as soon as I’m able._

_~~Tell Tibarn~~ Tell Lehran that his instructions are being followed to the letter. Micaiah is sure that I’m progressing well._

_I hope you’re well, Leanne. I’ll be in Serenes before you’re due._

__  
Pelleas comes to watch his first flight; in fact, half the castle turns out, including that wolf laguz Naesala’s never actually spoken to. Micaiah sits astride one of the wyverns along with its rider, and her husband stands beside Naesala on the battlements.

“When she gives the signal, you go,” he says, bluntly. He doesn’t get too close to the edge, and in fact, looks quite alarmed when Naesala climbs up on to the wall. His wing doesn’t ache when he spreads them, nor when he flaps them.

Micaiah raises her hand, and Naesala jumps.

For a second, he’s freefalling. It’s exhilarating. To be in the air, to feel the wind whipping past his head.

He spreads his wings and flaps and he’s _flying_.

How did he live without this? How could _anyone_ live without this?

He turns and it _hurts_. His wing shudders, but doesn’t fold, and he lands as quickly as he can. Pelleas hurries over – he doesn’t look like he knows whether to be happy or worried.

“Why did you land?” he asks.

Naesala shakes his head and clutches at Pelleas’ arms. “Again. I have to go up again.”

“Naesala!” Micaiah calls. He looks up; she’s shaking her head.

He snarls and abruptly storms away. Pelleas follows him after a moment, trailing at his heels like a dog. He catches up outside Naesala’s chambers, dithering in the doorway.

Naesala snaps, “Are you coming in or staying out?”

Pelleas creeps across the threshold, and Naesala slams the door behind him. Pelleas jumps and looks back to it, as if regretting his decision. It just makes Naesala angrier – he stalks over to his balcony, throws open the windows and stops. He could jump. He could jump and _make_ his wings carry him. Micaiah wouldn’t be able to stop him.

Gentle hands grab his arms. “Please don’t,” Pelleas says, urgently. “Come back inside.”

Naesala shrugs his hands off. “I almost did it,” he says. “I _flew_ but my wing-”

“Naesala, _please_ ,” Pelleas begs. He ushers Naesala back inside and bolts the balcony doors shut. A sigh of relief escapes him. “You did it. You’ll do it again. I believe in you.” Pelleas’ voice is wrecked and urgent and Naesala’s tense and coiled and angry – angry at himself, angry at _Tibarn_ , angry at _Reyson_ -

He whirls and pulls Pelleas to his chest, kissing him harshly. Biting at his lips. _Mine mine mine_. Pelleas whimpers, makes shocked noises, alarmed noises when Naesala all but flings him to the bed, but he says, “ _Yes_ ,” and nods when Naesala undresses him.

Naesala’s too fast with it he knows. Pelleas cries when he enters, and they’re painful tears. Naesala kisses them away, kisses Pelleas’ lips and cheeks and forehead, tries to soothe him, tries to make it _better_ , but his fingers still press bruises onto Pelleas’ hips.

The cry that escapes Pelleas at the end is one still tinged with pain.

Afterwards, Naesala says, “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Pelleas smiles at him. He’s shaking. “It was fine.”

Naesala laughs self-deprecatingly. “How badly I’ve treated you that you think _that_ was _fine_.”

Pelleas sits up and leans his head on Naesala’s shoulder. He grimaces slightly when he moves. “I don’t mind.”

“You should. I’m not a nice person, Pelleas.” He cups Pelleas’ chin. “I’ll do worse to you. I always do.”

The smile Pelleas gives him for that is sad; it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I don’t think you mean to hurt anyone, at least, not at first. But you do, and they start to expect it of you, so you start to hurt them deliberately because that’s the only way you know how to be with them.”

“You’re naïve,” Naesala snorts. “Innocent. Look where that’s landed you. In bed with a man who’ll break your heart.”

Pelleas’ voice is soft when he speaks. “I never expected you to keep it.”

Naesala has no reply to that. He watches, silent, as Pelleas slowly dresses and leaves. He thoughtfully closes the door behind him.

 

His next flight goes rather better, in addition to having considerably less of an audience.

Pelleas isn’t there. Micaiah notices, of course, but she doesn’t say anything. Naesala does so enjoy living up to people’s expectations. She examines his wing without any of the care she’s been given to, and Naesala almost asks if she’s _angry_. But the wolf at her heels gives him pause – it’s almost _obscene_ how devoted Nailah’s vassal is to Micaiah.

He humours her instead, and winces when her fingers touch a bit too harshly.

“There’s some swelling,” she comments. “I don’t want you flying again until it’s gone down.” She abandons him immediately afterwards. He can hear her being accosted as soon as she leaves his chambers; he should be grateful to her. She’s still tending his wing after all, he supposes, despite having a country to run.

She’s taken to it well enough. It is in her blood, and oh, hadn’t Begnion been in uproar when that little detail came out. It had been remarkable, in its own way, to watch as the people of Begnion rallied around Sanaki, just as the people of Daein rallied around Micaiah.

It’s a bitter feeling, to realise that your own people never particularly cared about you.

It makes Naesala laugh.

“Am I... interrupting?”

Naesala looks around to see Pelleas standing in the doorway. “Hardly.” He shrugs, jostling his wing enough to make him wince.

Pelleas hurries over; he pauses before Naesala. “Is your wing-”

“It’s fine. Stop hovering.”

Pelleas subsides, seating himself next to Naesala. “Micaiah said you missed me.”

Naesala chuckles. “Did she? How gauche of her.” There’s a pause. “Well? Did you need me?”

Pelleas ducks his head slightly and says, “Oh, no no. I’m sorry I missed your flight this morning. How did it go?”

Naesala reclines in his chair inelegantly. “As well as could be expected.”

An awkward silence descends. Pelleas sighs. “I’m sorry, I should have been there. I just thought....” He trails off and won’t meet Naesala’s eyes.

“ _What_ did you think?” Naesala asks, remarkably evenly. He doesn’t want Pelleas to reply.

Pelleas trembles, but lifts his head and looks Naesala straight in the eye. “I thought you wouldn’t want to see me after last night.”

Naesala snorts. “An assumption.”

“Was I wrong?” Pelleas asks, voice soft. “You can’t tell me that you _wanted_ to see me, not now you know that I lov-”

Naesala surges upright and all but shouts, “ _Don’t_. Don’t say that.”

A mulish expression crosses Pelleas’ face. “But it’s the truth. I love-”

Naesala stalks over to the door. “You can’t,” he says, pausing in the doorway. “You _can’t_.”

 

The look Micaiah gives him is worth every moment of- of _this_. He’s proved right again; he disappoints everyone.

That said, Micaiah’s ire is hardly easy to bear. She’s an almost cruel taskmaster; after his first few test flights, she starts refusing to let him land, forcing him to fly. Forcing him to use his wing as it should be used, even when it hurts. There are always dracoknights nearby if something goes catastrophically wrong, but the more time passes, the less likely it seems something will.

By the end of the month, he’s flying – if not _quite_ as he used to, but there are few enough who might notice. He can even fly well when shifted, when Micaiah at last gives him leave to do so. It’s _glorious_ to feel the wind over his feathers – to feel his _feathers_. Before he even takes to the air he has to spend a good half hour preening, no matter how many hidden smirks it garners him from the beorc. They have _no_ appreciation for proper feather care.

He sees Pelleas watching from his balcony, but declines to land there. Things have been... _tense_. If he’d thought Pelleas was easier or more relaxing than Tibarn, these last few weeks have proven Naesala _very_ wrong.

The first time he’s allowed to go flying by himself, Naesala flies high and far – south of Nevassa, where it’s warmer. He revels in the wind. He revels in the slight burn of his muscles; in seeing a rabbit far below and stooping on it. He doesn’t even catch it, but the delight in seeing it flee, terrified, more than makes up for it. Besides which, he catches a hare later and eats it raw, just for the thrill of it. His beak gets stained with blood and viscera, and he has to spend a short time cleaning and resting, but it’s all _worth_ it.

He feels- he feels _happy_.

When he returns, he lands on Pelleas’ balcony, like he used to, and he raps on the window sharply – when Pelleas lets him in, he shifts and wraps his arms around Pelleas, draws him close to his chest. Because he _can_.

Pelleas hugs back – and Naesala doesn’t know what’s going through Pelleas’ head. He doesn’t care either. He’s just _alive_.

Naesala tumbles Pelleas on to the bed, pulls Pelleas out of his clothes and kisses his throat. When Pelleas tries to kiss him, he turns his mouth away and says, “Don’t kiss me. I ate a hare while I was out.”

Pelleas laughs breathlessly. “A- a _hare_?” He gasps when Naesala bites his nipple.

“Yes,” Naesala replies, “it was delicious.” He sits up and smirks. “But not as delicious as you.”

Pelleas goes bright red and covers his face. “Don’t say things like that,” he squeaks.

Naesala laughs and kisses Pelleas just under his chin. “You shouldn’t cover your face,” he chides. “How am I meant to know when I’m pleasing you?”

“You always please me,” Pelleas half mumbles, and then he falls almost entirely silent, save for his gasps and moans.

Naesala sits up in bed afterwards, the sheets pooled around his hips. He fiddles idly with one of his dislodged feathers. Pelleas watches him with warm, gentle eyes. There’s something of Leanne in him, Naesala thinks. The terror they’d unleash if they were friends.

“Are you happy?” Pelleas asks, apropos of nothing.

It gives Naesala a start. He has to think about it, but eventually he says, “Yes. Yes, I think I am.”

Pelleas smiles and says, sleepily, “I’m glad.”

He falls asleep before Naesala can reply.

 

The next day, Micaiah tells him that King Tibarn of Serenes is coming to Daein.

 

He leaves without telling anyone. Before it’s even properly light; it’s dangerous, really, especially with his wing only newly healed. He doesn’t even take any food with him, and makes no provisions for shelter.

But Naesala can’t stay here. Not with Tibarn coming – not with Tibarn _bound_ to ask Naesala back to Serenes.

So he runs instead, and spares hardly a thought for Pelleas.

He flies half the day away, only landing when he’s south of Daein’s border, near Lake Semper. There are a few fishing villages on the lake’s borders, and he barters there for a meal – they’re suspicious, of course, but bird laguz have always paid well for Semper fish, so they’re not _too_ suspicious.

It’s only a light lunch, enough to give him energy for another flight.

He doesn’t even know where he’s going.

South, he decides. He’ll continue south, if only because the wind is blowing in that direction. Flying is easy when the wind’s behind you; easy and peaceful, and the pegasus knights don’t bother him when he passes. It’d be relaxing if his muscles weren’t tense with the thought of Tibarn behind him. Tibarn who’d undoubtedly be angry, and who, Naesala thinks, might very well be able to fly faster than Naesala can.

The wind takes him near Sienne; Sanaki would surely harbour him, but Naesala doesn’t doubt that Tibarn would look here first, and Sanaki isn’t kind enough to shield him _that_ much. Besides which, he doubts Tibarn would be particularly pleased to see her, especially if she was helping Naesala. The memory of her last involvement in their affairs isn’t one Naesala can just ignore.

Nevertheless, it’s getting dark so he overnights nearby, roosting in a tree. When morning comes, he turns southwest and heads out across the sea, to where Kilvas’ spires still stretch up to the sky.

There’s no-one there when he lands. Oh, back when they’d first proposed the idea, hundreds of people had opposed it. The old especially. Some had even stayed behind, at least at first. But they’d followed eventually, apart from those too infirm to do so, and when the last of them had died well.

Kilvas is a rocky and forbidding island. It can’t be said that Phoenicis is particularly lush, but it contained at least a little land that could be used for agriculture. Kilvas has only steep mountains, rocky soil and sheer cliffs. Tibarn had once called Naesala the worst kind of scum; the pirate who stole indiscriminately, without care for who it was he stole from.

But what else could he do? Kilvas is a barren island.

Naesala returns to the castle that was his. A skua screeches at him, and is duly surprised when he screeches back. It flies away, still heckling him, but Naesala ignores it in favour of exploration.

The castle was never exactly _welcoming_. It’d been half carved out of the mountain, given an austere exterior, and now it had been left to ruins. There are hardly any land animals on Kilvas – a few rabbit like creatures that live on the rocks and eat the few hardy plants that grow here, and a small herd or two of mountain goats – so most of the damage has been done by birds looking to nest. Shattered eggshells crunch under Naesala’s feet as he walks to his old throne room.

The throne’s just as he remembers. Unadorned, stark, cold. Like the rest of Kilvas. A bitter smile tugs at Naesala’s lips. How right that her king should mirror her.

He doesn’t linger there, instead choosing to go upstairs, past the ruined rooms and stripped walls. The castle has a small tower, and it was long ago deemed right and proper that the king should have his rooms there, despite how tactically unsafe it was. He’d have rather given it to be a guard tower, even though their only enemy came silent and unseen.

It’s unsurprisingly ransacked. Birds have taken what thieves did not – the murdering robber, Naesala muses, has been robbed. Not that he particularly cares. Everything he’d left here, he hadn’t cared about.

The bed has survived at least. A little the worse for wear, but ultimately not too bad.

Naesala shifts and settles down to rest.

 

A beorc wouldn’t last long on Kilvas. Even Naesala struggles a bit, but he happens across some of the mountain goats and it’s hardly hard for him to startle one enough that it loses its footing and falls. He flies down and collects the corpse before the carrion feeders get there and carries it back to the castle. He _could_ eat it raw, he supposes, but the meat wouldn’t keep for long. Better to prepare it and ration it instead.

Self-sufficiency is _exhausting_. Piracy was _so_ much easier.

He goes and catches some of the rabbit like creatures and eats them while the goat cooks. They’re not particularly tasty, but then again, when he’s shifted it’s not really about the taste of food so much as it is about eating at all.

He spends three days biding his time on Kilvas. On the third day a skua tries to fight him for the rabbit creature he’s caught – he ends up having roast skua for dinner, although he can’t say that it’s particularly nice.

He misses Serenes. But he’s not going to go back.

When he wakes up on the fourth day, it’s to the indignant screech of the gulls – and the piercing shriek of a hawk.

He runs. Down the tower, through the corridors, into the main body of the castle, into the mountain. He hates it down there, but so do all bird laguz. So will Tibarn. Maybe he won’t want to follow, Naesala thinks.

Naesala turns a corner and all but slams straight into Pelleas.

“Naesala-” Pelleas begins, but Naesala’s already turned around and started running back the other way. He runs past a doorway, catches a brief glimpse of Tibarn – wings spread magnificently – and carries right on running.

“Naesala!” Tibarn shouts, and Naesala’s barely gone four paces before a large hand grabs his shoulder and hauls him back.

“Let go!” Naesala squawks, shoving at Tibarn, but the fool doesn’t let go.

“No,” he says, and drags him close. His wings curve around them, and although Tibarn doesn’t enfold Naesala in a hug, it’s a close thing. “Do you have any _idea_ what you’ve put us through?” he snaps.

Naesala struggles to escape, but Tibarn’s not letting go. “Get _off_!”

“Oh, you caught him.” Naesala looks up to see Pelleas appearing behind Tibarn’s shoulder. “Hello, Naesala.”

“Was this _your_ idea?” Naesala snaps, waspishly. “Because if it was you can tell this buffoon to let me go.”

Pelleas smiles and shakes his head. “I’m afraid his Highness wouldn’t listen to me.”

Tibarn snorts. “Damn right. You’re not getting away that easily, Naesala.”

“Can we at least move to somewhere more open to have this _riveting_ discussion? Much as I’m sure we all enjoy dark passages, I can hardly even see the scowl on Tibarn’s face.”

Tibarn laughs, not unkindly, and picks Naesala up and puts him over his shoulder, ignoring Naesala squawk of protest. Even Pelleas giggles, prompting Naesala to glare at him and hiss, “Traitor.”

Tibarn carries him back out of the mountain and down to the throne room, where he finally sets Naesala down and lets him go. Naesala favours him with a dirty look and fixes his clothes. “I’m not going back to Serenes,” he announces, “and I think it was supremely unfair of you to come to Daein like that.”

Tibarn sighs and says, “I had to see you. We parted... badly.”

“No we didn’t. I’m quite sure we parted on _very_ good terms-”

“Except you still went to Daein.” Tibarn crosses his arms.

Naesala glances at Pelleas for a moment, before replying, “I was always going to leave, don’t pretend you thought otherwise.”

Tibarn’s wings twitch, although he doesn’t otherwise react. “I gave you your space, Naesala. It’s been months. I would have come to Daein eventually, and if not me then one of my aides – _Leanne_ might have come. Would you have just run then too?”

“You should have just let me be!” Naesala snaps, turning away and stalking over to the throne that was his. He throws himself into it.

“You would have left anyway,” Pelleas says, abruptly. He looks pensive. “You were going to leave... because of me.”

Tibarn fixes Pelleas with a long look before turning back to Naesala. “Were you?”

Naesala purses his lips. “Perhaps,” he concedes.

Both of them seem to deflate. Tibarn stalks over to the window and rests his hands on the sill, while Pelleas just hunches his shoulder and folds his arms.

“You both knew this,” Naesala says, almost gently. “You both know me. I don’t know why you’re surprised.”

“You’re better than you think you are,” Pelleas murmurs, offering Naesala smile. There are tears in his eyes.

“No I’m not,” Naesala protests. “I’ve treated you wretchedly, Pelleas, and you know it.”

Pelleas laughs softly and walks over to Naesala, leaning down to press a sweet kiss to his forehead. “I forgive you.”

Naesala exhales and mutters, “You shouldn’t.”

“He’s right.” Tibarn looks back. “For years- for years I’ve thought of you terribly, and you’d never hurt me. But everything you did, you did for Kilvas.” Naesala starts to protest, but Tibarn cuts him off with a shake of his head. “Don’t pretend, Naesala. Even Phoenicis... you did what you had to do because otherwise it would have been _Kilvas_ that suffered.”

Naesala jumps to his feet. “Don’t make me out to be some sort of _martyr_.”

Tibarn snorts and says, “No, of course not. But that doesn’t change the facts, Naesala. Pelleas is right. Leanne is right. _Reyson_ was right.”

Naesala flinches like he’s been struck. “You- you can’t just _say_ that.”

Tibarn smirks and crosses the room in a few easy strides. “But I _can_. They’re all _right_. You did terrible things for a good reason. There’s nothing to say that you can’t do good things now. Except that _I_ wouldn’t let you.” He catches Naesala’s chin and tilts his head. Blunt fingers stroke the scar on Naesala’s neck. “I left myself a warning that you couldn’t be trusted.”

“So heed it,” Naesala spits, his breath hitching.

“No.” Tibarn leans in and presses his lips against the scar. “I apologise for this.” He lets go and steps back.

Naesala swallows thickly. He takes a step back. “You-” He cuts off and swallows again. Pelleas as a queer look on his face. Naesala pretends not to notice.

“At a loss for words?” Tibarn asks, lightly.

“Yes!” Naesala snaps. “You can’t just- what do _want_?”

Tibarn shakes his head. “I don’t want anything. This isn’t an exchange, Naesala.”

Pelleas makes a soft noise, and reaches for Naesala’s hand. Naesala lets him. “You don’t have to run away anymore,” Pelleas murmurs.

Naesala’s not sure when they moved to his bedroom, or indeed, _why_ they went there. Presumably, Naesala thinks, there _was_ a reason, but he can’t seem to fathom it.

He’s lying on the bed, and Pelleas and Tibarn are discussing something in low voices on the other side of the room. Probably scheming. Plotting. If he’d known how terrible it was to let them be alone together, Naesala never would have left... or well, not without assuring himself that Pelleas and Tibarn _wouldn’t_ fall in together and start their little _cohort_.

He must make some noise because they look up. Their expressions are indecipherable, not that Naesala particularly _wants_ to decipher them. He sits up and stretches his wings out. Tibarn shifts slightly, and then walks over.

“I’m glad they’re healed,” he says. He reaches out to touch Naesala’s wing. “May I?”

Irritated, Naesala nods sharply. Tibarn’s fingers are surprisingly gentle. Lighter than even Micaiah’s had been; he combs through Naesala’s feathers with exquisite chare. The touch of his lips on Naesala’s wing is fleeting. “I apologise for this too.”

Naesala withdraws his wing and says, “It’s fine.”

Tibarn sits down and makes Naesala turn towards him. “It was everything _but_ fine, Naesala. You know that better than anyone.”

“Hn.” Naesala doesn’t meet Tibarn’s eyes. He sees a movement out of the corner of his eye, and catches Pelleas just about to leave the room. “Where do you think _you’re_ going?”

Pelleas blushes lightly and mumbles, “Ah, um. Well I just thought I’d. Leave you two alone. You seem like you have, a, um a lot to discuss.”

It takes Naesala a moment, but he realises what he and Tibarn must look like, at least to Pelleas’ eyes. He snorts and says, “Come here.”

Pelleas walks over like someone mounting the gallows. As soon as he gets there, Naesala drags him down into a possessive kiss, unmindful of the watching Tibarn. Pelleas makes a noise into the kiss and all but collapses into Naesala’s lap. Naesala settles a hand on Pelleas’ hip and draws him closer; his wing flexes and presses against Tibarn. Naesala shudders, but doesn’t move his wing back.

When he finally ends the kiss and glances towards Tibarn, there’s an inscrutable look on his face. Naesala smirks, just slightly – Tibarn smirks back, catches Naesala’s chin and kisses him just as possessively as Naesala had Pelleas.

He pulls away briefly and murmurs, “We had a discussion,” before leaning back in. Pelleas squirms in Naesala’s lap, but otherwise doesn’t object.

“Wait,” Naesala says, when Tibarn lets him go, “you had a discussion and decided that _this_ was-”

“N-not exactly,” Pelleas interrupts. “But-” He ducks his head. “If it would make you happy.”

“I don’t deserve-”

“Shut up,” Tibarn grumbles. “Just accept it.” He kisses Naesala again and Pelleas wriggles off Naesala’s lap.

“I’m only trying to ascertain-”

Tibarn makes an aggrieved noise. “You weren’t this talkative last time.”

Naesala twitches and glances towards Pelleas – he hasn’t told him about _that_ – but Pelleas doesn’t seem surprised or upset. A little embarrassed, maybe. He offers Naesala a shaky smile and says, “We, um, we talked about that.”

“Oh.”

Pelleas eyes flick away from Naesala then back. He starts to say something then seems to think better of it. His hands twist in his lap and then he reaches for Naesala and gives him a fleeting kiss.

Naesala smiles crookedly and cups Pelleas’ cheek. “You see what I mean when I say I treat you terribly?”

Pelleas turns and kisses Naesala’s palm. “I forgive you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

Tibarn squeezes Naesala’s shoulder. “Accept our forgiveness, you idiot crow.”

“Hmph. There’s no need to be insulting-” Tibarn interrupts Naesala with another kiss, turning him away from Pelleas. Tibarn’s hands start sliding under Naesala’s clothes. He breaks the kiss and leans down to kiss the hollow of Naesala’s throat. “Ah,” Naesala gasps. “Hmm, perhaps I should – mn – get undressed?”

“There’s no rush,” Tibarn murmurs, although his hands bely his words, undoing the clasp on the front of Naesala’s shirt. He mouths further down before sitting up and looking over Naesala’s shoulder. A wry grin appears on his face. “Besides, it looks like someone has beaten you to it.”

Naesala glances back – Pelleas hurriedly pulls his cloak back over himself, blushing brightly. “Well, you were busy,” he mumbles.

“Come here,” Naesala says, reaching out to drag Pelleas closer. Pelleas lets the cloak drop and moves so it’s easier for them to kiss. He kisses differently to Tibarn – sweeter, Naesala supposes. He likes it. He likes Pelleas’ throat as well; it still bears the marks from before, fading now. When Naesala leans forward to lick them, Tibarn reaches over his shoulder to touch them as well, and Pelleas whimpers softly.

“Keep up, Naesala,” Tibarn murmurs – a quick glance confirms that _he’s_ also stripped while Naesala wasn’t paying attention. Naesala’s about to reply when Tibarn ducks his head and presses a kiss against the base of Naesala’s wing.

He groans and pushes at Tibarn. “Move, you lummox. I can’t undress with you standing there.” Tibarn obligingly moves out of the way; while Naesala undresses, Pelleas moves further up the bed and lies back. Tibarn watches him, his expression not so very different from that night, months ago, when he walked in on them. As soon as Naesala returns to the bed he stops staring at Pelleas, eagerly sliding up behind Naesala and kissing the first of Naesala’s scars he can reach. Naesala lowers himself over Pelleas, touching him reassuringly on his hip.

While Tibarn kisses, licks and bites his way across Naesala’s back, Naesala settles himself between Pelleas’ thighs and kisses him almost reverentially. Pelleas clutches at Naesala’s shoulders and scrunches his eyes shut – he arches against Naesala’s body. Tibarn moves briefly away, and when he returns he presses a phial of oil into Naesala’s hand. Naesala shakes his head and gives it back, moving down Pelleas’ body. Pelleas makes a noise and says, “ _Naesala_ ,” as Naesala wraps his mouth around him.

Tibarn makes an approving noise – his fingers are cool and slick when they touch him again. Naesala groans when he slides them inside, and Pelleas moans in response, clutching tighter at Naesala’s shoulders. Tibarn licks up Naesala’s spine, pausing briefly to kiss at the base of Naesala’s wings; he curls his fingers at the same time and Naesala’s wings spasm, almost hitting him in the face.

“Hmm,” Tibarn murmurs, “interesting.”

His fingers aren’t quite as gentle as the last time, but Naesala prefers it. When Tibarn pulls them free, Naesala sighs and sits up. Pelleas whines and immediately covers his face with his hands.

“Don’t worry so,” Naesala murmurs. He wraps a hand around them both – Pelleas watches with wide eyes – and Tibarn settles behind Naesala. A large hand holds Naesala’s hip and Tibarn thrusts; it burns at first, but soon gets better.

They settle into a rhythm – Pelleas even shyly moves a hand down to help Naesala. It doesn’t take long for Pelleas to moan and shudder, biting his lips to muffle his cry. His hand squeezes around Naesala and Naesala spends as well; Tibarn bites Naesala’s shoulder and his fingers dig bruises into Naesala’s hips.

He pulls out shortly after, and Naesala rolls off Pelleas, briefly thankful that he’d had such a large and accommodating bed. Pelleas turns towards Naesala, grimacing only a little at the mess on his thighs. He yawns, even though it’s barely midday.

Naesala smiles and says, “I do think a nap is in order.” Tibarn shifts, getting up and tearing off part of the curtains. He uses it to wipe the worst of the mess off, murmuring something about washing later. When he lies down beside Naesala, he stretches his wing out over him. The feathers just brush Pelleas, who moves closer to Naesala.

He smiles and falls asleep.

 

The flight back to the mainland is a peaceful one, at least for Naesala. Pelleas clings to Tibarn’s back with grim determination, and Tibarn flies near effortlessly despite the extra weight. When Naesala offers to carry Pelleas for a while, they both tell him off – he might overtax his wing, after all. Naesala laughs, and proceeds to fly circles around Tibarn until they’re in sight of Mainal.

“You’ll be going back to Daein, I suppose,” Naesala comments when they land. Pelleas ducks his head and clutches his elbow awkwardly, while Tibarn makes himself scarce.

“I do have responsibilities,” Pelleas says. “Micaiah was kind enough to let me search for you, but I _am_ expected back.”

Naesala sighs and cups Pelleas’ chin. “I’m returning to Serenes,” he says. “It’s unlikely we’ll see each other soon.”

Pelleas doesn’t cry, but it’s a close thing, Naesala suspects. “I wish you well,” he says. “I’ll- I’ll think of you.”

Naesala kisses him quickly and hurries away. Pelleas does not call him back.

“Are you ready?” Tibarn asks, when Naesala walks up beside him. “If you wanted to return to Daein, I wouldn’t stop you.”

“Hn. No, I think I shall come to Serenes. There are some things I need to do.” Naesala stretches his wings and shifts. Tibarn follows him, and they soar easily back to Serenes. It’s an easy flight, although Tibarn draws Naesala into flight games – stooping and tangling talons, mock fighting. It’s fun – like being a child again, with no cares in the world. Tibarn stops after a while, presumably out of concern for Naesala’s wing, and by then it’s getting dark anyway.

They’re in time to see Leanne before she heads to bed. She’s far more obviously pregnant than the last time Naesala saw her; a hawk dithers behind her with a chair, although she’s obviously ignoring him.

“It’s good to see you,” she murmurs, smiling more brightly than she has since- for months. “They missed you too,” she continues, taking Naesala’s hand and carefully pressing it to her swollen belly. After a moment, there’s a brief flutter against his hand.

Tibarn clears his throat and Leanne laughs. “They missed you too, of course. Come here.” She motions Tibarn over with her free hand, and takes his hand as well. When Naesala goes to step away, she squeezes his wrist gently; Tibarn’s hand is placed over her stomach and touching Naesala. There’s more movement; Tibarn’s face slowly breaks into an expression of wonder.

“He would’ve been so happy,” he says, softly.

Leanne’s smile dims a little. “Yes,” she agrees.

Tibarn clears his throat again and shakes his wings out. “I’ll see you both tomorrow,” he says, pausing briefly to give Naesala an indecipherable look before turning on his heel and walking away to his chambers.

As soon as he’s around the corner, Leanne gives a delighted giggle and says, “Do not think to lie to me, Naesala, I can see it in your heart.”

Naesala huffs and folds his arms. “I would never be so stupid as to hide something from a heron.” He offers her his arm and when she takes it, leads the way to her chambers. The hawk with the chair finally leaves, presumably confused about what just happened.

“I was worried,” Leanne says, “the day Naesala left. Tibarn was... not himself. Everyone noticed. His heart was so chaotic... but it cleared and then I knew why.” She gives Naesala a glare. “It was a very unkind thing you did to him.”

Naesala opens his mouth to say he deserved it, but Leanne thumps him as hard as she can. “These hawks are _such_ a bad influence on you,” Naesala says instead, rubbing at his shoulder.

“No. Naesala is.”

Naesala clucks his tongue and gasps, “Young lady! Whoever taught you such- such-”

Leanne laughs. “Naesala did,” she repeats. They stop before her door, and Naesala opens it for her.

Naesala shakes his head. “Whatever happened the sweet girl of my childhood?”

Leanne laughs softly and sits down, carefully. “Naesala’s changed too.”

“Hmm.”

Leanne looks down at her hands and murmurs, “I’m glad. Naesala is... better.” She touches her chest. “His heart doesn’t hurt so much.”

“I do wish you wouldn’t-”

“Naesala’s heart is always calling. I have to listen, because no-one else will.” Leanne pauses briefly and then says, “No-one else _would_.”

“Leanne....”

She smiles again and says, “Naesala should rest. It’s been a long day.”

He waits a moment in silence, and then nods sharply and leaves.

 

There are, much to Naesala’s surprise, a great many people who wish to see him. More specifically, a great many who wish to see him _fly_ , and he’s happy enough to oblige. Some of his people even join him, and they fly wingtip-to-wingtip in great circles above Serenes. Such displays aren’t uncommon at this time of the year; the hawks still find it amusing. Naesala suspects they also find it frustrating; very few of them have the same grace in the air as a raven.

Tibarn comes out to watch mid-afternoon. There’s still a seriousness to his gaze, but it’s heavily tempered by the warmth in his eyes. It’s not quite the expression he’d worn for Reyson but.

Tibarn has never looked at him like that before. Like he’s _worth_ something. Like he’s _important_. It’s strange, so Naesala looks away, pretends he doesn’t notice the strength of Tibarn’s gaze. He continues to fly lazily, feigning indifference. After a while, there’s a screech from below, and then Tibarn’s soaring up on his great green wings to join him. If Naesala could, he’d be rolling his eyes.

As it is, he deigns to fly beside Tibarn briefly. They slowly descend in a tight circle; Tibarn’s primaries just brush Naesala’s on occasion, and when they land it’s to a brief smattering of applause. Everyone enjoys a good flight display.

“You wanted me?” Naesala asks after shifting back.

Tibarn nods brusquely. “I think we should have a discussion.” He makes a jerky movement; as if he was going to place his hand on Naesala’s back, but thought better of it before he completed the gesture.

“If my King insists,” Naesala replies.

Tibarn starts and gives Naesala a look. His eyes flick briefly to Naesala’s lips and then he swallows and looks away. “Not now, Naesala,” Tibarn murmurs.

Naesala’s lips curl into a smirk. “Hn. If that is what you wish.”

Tibarn leads the way to his chambers; there’s a silence between them, but unlike previous silences, this one is wholly amicable.

Naesala hates it.

He’s tense before he even steps into the office, and only gets tenser when Tibarn sits behind his desk. The silence becomes slightly awkward; Naesala reclines against the wall, rather than sit in the other chair. He’s never liked this. Being on the wrong side of the desk.

Tibarn clears his throat and says, “I’ve decided to cede you- I’ve prepared the documents telling you what you’ll be responsible for.” He looks somewhat chagrined. “I did you no favours when I took virtually all your power. Obviously it’s not a kingship-”

“I never wanted to be king,” Naesala snaps. “Not even of Kilvas, yet here we are.”

Tibarn looks up and asks, “Then why did you?”

Naesala laughs and replies, “You of all people know the succession of laguz. The strongest of us rules. I simply happened to be the strongest survi- hmph. I can’t say I enjoyed my rule, and the way those traitorous crows worship you, I doubt any of them particularly enjoyed it either.”

Something in Tibarn’s expression softens. “They like you well enough.” There’s a weighted pause and then, “After I broke your wing, I thought they would secede from Serenes. A king who can’t hold his temper is no good king at all.”

“Oh? Do you know what stopped them?”

Tibarn looks away. “Leanne spoke to them. And they remained.”

Naesala folds his arms. “Tibarn, I do hope you’re not giving me power simply to placate my kinsmen.”

“I shouldn’t have taken it from you in the first place. I was angry – hah. You always made me angry, even when we were children. Never did think straight when it came to you or Reyson.” Tibarn stands and walks towards the window. “Different emotions, but the outcome was the same, wouldn’t you say?”

Naesala shifts uncomfortably. “If this is going to be another declaration of love, I shall have to decline. At this rate I’ll have half of Tellius wanting me and-”

“As if you don’t already,” Tibarn says, warmly. “Besides, I’m sure you knew already.”

“ _Yes_ , of course, I’m hardly blind.” Stupid hawks and their stupid faces. “I’ll accept whatever you give me.”

“Chief diplomat,” Tibarn says, “and a few other responsibilities.” His voice turns momentarily severe. “It will mean no more flying off to Daein whenever you feel like it.”

“I expected as much. Shackling me with responsibility is still shackling me, Tibarn,” Naesala comments, perhaps a touch nastily. “A gilded cage is still a cage.”

It’s a testament to how far they’ve come that all Tibarn does is huff amusedly and say, “I’m trying to give you a _home_ you fool crow.”

Softly, Naesala says, “I know that.”

 

A month passes remarkably quickly – Naesala spends a great many hours complaining to Leanne that Tibarn has saddled him with all the horrible responsibilities that a king has, including _taxes_. “It’s like he wants to make me _more_ unpopular,” Naesala tells her, and Leanne just laughs.

There are letters to Pelleas, but no visits. In one of his letters, Pelleas intimates that perhaps it’s better this way, although of course he misses Naesala something fierce. Micaiah, he says, is newly pregnant as well, and absolutely does not miss Naesala in the slightest. _She says she might throttle you if she sees you again_ , Pelleas writes. This is hardly the worst threat Naesala has ever received.

Sanaki visits; she’s severe and displeased in general, especially, she says, with the people the senate want her to marry. Naesala overhears her speaking to Leanne once; they seem to be talking about him, so Naesala leaves before they notice he’s there. Obviously even Princesses and Empresses are not above gossiping.

He and Tibarn get along remarkably well in public. Naesala attributes all of this to the fact that at night they fuck wildly – Tibarn is _more_ than willing to entertain some of Naesala’s fetishes. It’s positively amazing they never did this before, Naesala thinks, although if he focuses quite hard he can maybe remember a particularly drunken blowjob under a table.

It’s almost too good to be true.

 

The anniversary of Reyson’s death comes as somewhat of a surprise – Naesala wakes up, shoves Tibarn’s arm off his chest and thinks, _Reyson died a year ago today_.

He’s in a foul mood all morning, while Tibarn is in a melancholic one. They snap at each other; Naesala thinks they should raise exportation fees for all produce leaving Serenes, while Tibarn argues that they need to barter for so much that making everything more expensive will chase away all their suppliers. Work doesn’t just disappear because Reyson did.

Eventually, Naesala storms out. He flies out past Lehran’s cottage; his wings lead him to the spot where they found him. There aren’t any signs left. The trees are still green – one of them is carved with an intricate design. Just below it, the deep gouges from Tibarn’s talons also lie. Reyson would have been upset about that, Naesala thinks, would have been angry that Tibarn hurt one of the trees.

He’s there for a while. Presently, Tibarn lands beside him. He touches the gouges he left, bows his head. Doesn’t speak. They stand in silence. Eventually, Tibarn takes Naesala’s hand; he can feel it shaking.

“I still can’t believe he’s gone,” Tibarn says, softly.

Naesala doesn’t reply.

They fly back in the evening and eat a subdued dinner. Naesala doesn’t go with Tibarn when he retires, instead walking to Leanne’s chambers. She’s asleep already – she wakes up a little, and pushes the covers down invitingly, and says, “Naesala can stay.”

He sleeps in her bed, his hands gentle on her waist, and dreams of a different world.

 

Leanne gives birth to twins four days later. Both are blond and white winged, trueborn royal herons. A boy and a girl; she has names for both of them, but says they can be formally announced in a week’s time. Enough time for the various countries to send envoys, or come themselves. Queen Elincia sends a messenger extremely quickly, saying that she would be delighted to personally attend the ceremony, while the other royals respond somewhat slower.

Ranulf comes on behalf of Skrimir, as do Gareth and Nasir for Kurthnaga. Micaiah and Sanaki attend with small retinues, while Nailah is already present herself, having arrived with Rafiel only the day after the birth. All the women exclaim delightedly over the twins beforehand – with the exception of Sanaki, but even Naesala can see that she’s pleased to be here. They all hold them as well; Ranulf and Gareth both decline the honour, but Nasir dandles the little boy with a smile.

Leanne reveals their names with a small flourish; no-one is surprised. There is a smattering of applause, a great deal of conversation and then the children need to be put to bed, so Leanne retires with them. No-one comments on Lehran’s presence, nor the fact that he leaves with Leanne and the twins.

So it is that Naesala finds himself standing beside Pelleas, in much the same place as they were a year before. This time however, he has Pelleas’ undivided attention.

“I did miss you,” Pelleas admits, “but I knew you were better here, so I couldn’t be unhappy.”

Naesala shifts a little closer to Pelleas, proprietarily. “You are far too good,” Naesala says. “You have no care for yourself at all, do you?”

Pelleas smiles. “If the people I care for are happy, then I can be happy as well.”

“Honestly,” Naesala says, “you speak as if we’re never going to see each other again.”

The look Pelleas gives then is terribly melancholic. “I think,” he says, “I think it would be better if we didn’t.” His voice shakes a little as he raises his hand and brushes the hair off his forehead, showing his spirit mark for a brief moment. “I’ve always known my time would be short,” Pelleas says, “ever since I decided on this. And I- I don’t want you to suffer when I’m,” Pelleas chokes, “I don’t want you to suffer when I’m not here.”

Naesala’s well aware that his grip on Pelleas’ shoulder is a bit tighter than it should be – he tugs Pelleas out onto a balcony, away from prying eyes. “Pelleas,” he says, “if you think that I _wouldn’t_ be upset in any case then you are severely mistaken.”

Pelleas bursts into tears and buries his face in Naesala’s clothes.

“I may not be able to visit you often,” Naesala continues, “and I don’t doubt that our relationship will change, but this doesn’t have to be the end.”

Pelleas laughs delightedly through his tears; his lips taste salty when Naesala kisses him, but he doesn’t mind.

 

Naesala lands on the balcony to Tibarn’s room. After a moment, Tibarn appears, only half dressed and barefoot.

Naesala smiles and says, “I’m home.”

**Author's Note:**

> For the interested in the audience, I think it should be pretty obvious that Leanne named her son Reyson. Her daughter gave me more trouble; she's Lillia Altina (and she breaks Lehran's heart).


End file.
